


Back Again

by thequeenbeetch



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenbeetch/pseuds/thequeenbeetch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU Thilbo fic. | Many years after the defeat of Smaug and the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo lives content in Bag End, and Thorin rules Erebor, the two of them never having entirely forgiven each other for their mutual betrayal. However, as a shadow creeps over Middle Earth, Thorin realizes the time lost and the looming danger, and wishes to reignite the spark that was once between them, not knowing that the darkness is reaching not for Erebor, but for a little, meaningless hamlet in the Shire...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> I still lack a proper beta, but as no one who's read this commented on it negatively, I will post it here. If there's anyone willing to beta the following chapters of this, let me know.  
> ***  
> This will later on perhaps involve Fili in a rather rare ship. Most archive warnings are for later chapters.  
> ***  
> In case you didn't figure it out yet, this is LotR, if Thorin, Fili and Kili never died. And about 30-40 years before it happened in canon.

Bilbo fussed in the kitchen, trying to properly accommodate his guests. He had not expected anyone to arrive over a month before his birthday celebrations, especially not from Mirkwood and Erebor. Year after year he had sent invitations to both realms, but there had never been a response. He did wish, however, that both kinds would come themselves, but being a king ought to be tough and he could hardly expect someone with such duties to throw that all aside to come and visit a common hobbit, albeit one that took his part in slaying a dragon. At least Thranduil sent the second best, his own son, to be his envoy, while Thorin… He did not like to think of him. The way they parted was not pleasant, even though they both forgave each other, the bitterness of the mutual betrayal would linger for years to come.

He placed some fresh cake and tea on the table for his guests, smiling and hoping his cheerful nature would hide his confusion.

“Well, my lords, it is hardly a feast, but I should be able to feed you much better after the stew is cooked,” he said, “I believe your way here was not that easy. Terrible things happen nowadays, I hear. Orcs and goblins and bandits and whatnot. Only got worse since I went off on that quest with your father, master Gimli” he nodded at the dwarf, “And how are your father’s forests, prince Legolas?”

“The woods are fine,” the elf replied, “What lingers within them is the problem. Spiders come as close as my father’s halls. And I have heard the same of Erebor, from master Gimli.”

“Aye, bleedin’ beasts crawl into our vaults, our smithies, they don’ even fear the fire anymore. Ol’ Thorin does his best, bless his heart, but one can only do so much.”

“Perhaps… if you’d join forces..?” the hobbit suggested hesitantly.

“Do not think we did not,” Legolas explained, “It is only that the area between our lands is untouched at the moment. We each must ward off the evil at our own doorsteps. But there is contact . Slow, hesitant, but both my father and king Thorin are not fools. If this continues, there will be need for a tighter alliance. Perhas with Men as well.”

“Men!” Gimli huffed, “Don’ think I don’ know tha’ Thranduil sent messengers to Gondor! Wha’ did they say, elf? Eh? We have no use for Men in our lands. An’ they have their own evils.”

Clearly, the discussion had not originated in Bilbo Baggins’ dining room, for Legolas had left it at that, only shaking his head slightly.

“Well… as folk here say, no news is good news. I have not heard of anything fine or good since I returned here. Nothing but relatives and neighbors at my doors. But how is the old company?” he smiled at Gimli, “Doing well I hope?”

“Aye, all returned to their proper places within Erebor” Gimli nodded, his mouth half-filled with cake, “They talk lots about you, master Baggins! An’ miss you.” he grinned. Legolas smiled at that as well.

“Indeed. I often visit Erebor, as my father’s envoy. I cannot recall a visit where King Thorin would not mention you.”

The hobbit blinked, “Thorin? Mentions me?”

“Oh ‘e does, mister Baggins, ‘e does!” Gimli smirked a bit, taking a letter out from his sack and handing it to Bilbo, “Even wrote you a letter he did. ‘E wants you in Erebor.”

“W-what?! Me? In Erebor? I’m a hobbit!”

“A Hobbit that’s helped to kill a dragon” Legolas observed, “And that’s fended off trolls, goblins and orcs. A hobbit that was named friend to Elves, Dwarves and Wizards. I dare say, master Baggins, that your home is in every place in Middle Earth now, as every place will happily have you.”

“Not Gondor tho,” Gimli huffed again.

“Aye,” the elf rolled his eyes, “Not Gondor.”

Bilbo looked down on the letter, his hands trembling. He had not heard from Thorin for so long…

As he reached with his hand to open it, someone quite loudly, and even more rudely and unhobbitly burst through the door.

“Mister Bilbo! Mister Bilbo!” it was old Gamgee, the gardener, and he looked quite distressed as he wobbled into the dining room, not even surprised at the sight of the elf and dwarf at the table, “Terrible news, mister Bilbo! Terrible, horrible news!”

“Calm down, man, calm down!” Bilbo helped him to a chair and poured him tea, “What’s so terrible?”

“Your cousin, sir! Master Drogo! He’s dead!”

 

 

Having been forced to cut their visit short, Legolas and Gimli left Bilbo with the letter, gifts from their kings and much on his mind. The funeral of his cousins was a traditional, proper hobbit funeral of a traditional, proper hobbit couple. They also left behind a traditional, proper hobbit orphan and it was to much annoyance, distress and scandal that the boy was taken in by Bilbo. He himself was not sure why he decided to do so. The boy was only twelve, hardly anything but a child, and Bilbo never had children of his own, and never married. But, as he found out from his guests, he was not the only one that was expected of that ignored that duty. He sat, almost a month after the grim proceedings and a few days before his own birthday, and held the still unopened letter in his hands. Here he was – a hobbit that should be nearing the end of his days and yet looking as fine as he did on the day he left for his journey, alone and unloved, save for the gratitude of one small orphan, in a sad and plain hobbit hole. Everything he cared for and wanted used to be here. His books, his lovely furniture, his precious plates… He no longer wished for those. All he wished for was in a far away land, within the depths of a lonely mountain.

Slowly, he opened the letter.

 

 

“Master Hamfast!” he said, heading over to the small house that his gardener and his family occupied, “Dear master Hamfast! I do apologise for calling on you so late! Do come out!”

After a moment of rumbling, cursing and stumbling across to the door, the gardener peeked through his door.

“Mister Bilbo! Good heavens, it is the middle of the night! It’s not even one o’clock! What on earth has happened?”

“Well… I was just thinking master Hamfast… what with your boy growing and all, and his love for gardening and things, your small house is hardly the place for him is it? And for you and your lovely wife as well!”

“.. I don’t think I follow, sir.”

“Well, having a lad like that must surely not work so well for your marital duties,” the other hobbit was about to speak out in proper outrage, but Bilbo shushed him with a raised hand, “Now now, I have an offer for you. You see, I’m moving house.”

“… Moving sir? Poor master Drogo’s house is hardly bigger than yours, and the lake’s so close, there’ll be mosquitoes!”

“Yes, yes, I’m not moving there. I’m going away.”

“How- how away, sir?”

“Far. Very far. Erebor.”

“… Goodnes gracious, sir!” the man almost fell back, “But that’s dwarf-land sir!”

“Indeed it is!” Biblo grinned and handed Hamfast Gamgee a large roll of parchment and keys, “And this is the deed and keys to Bag End. Main door, garden gate, and this” he moved his head closer and whispered, “This is for the chest. Twice left, once right. Dwarven lock.”

The older hobbit stared at him, amazed, as Bilbo shook his hand, “Well then! Time to be off. You can move in whenever you like. I won’t be needing Bag End and I know you’ll keep it well. Good bye, master Hamfast!” he bowed and left, leaving the stunned gardener alone, in the middle of the night, in nothing but his nighty.


	2. Hopes and Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin does not believe that he could be forgiven, and it takes one with an equally broken heart to convince him otheriwse.   
> Bilbo makes his way to Erebor, but is pursued by something most sinister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I torture Fili in this. I'm evil. Written entirely during a saturday shift at work, no beta, but I decied toput it up anyway. Still actively looking for beta!

_Five Months Prior_

The halls of Erebor, though again full of life, did not seem any less grim to Thorin than the day he was forced to leave the city. Throughout the years since Smaug’s defeat, the walls were lifted, the statues remade and the gold recounted, the Lonely Mountain once again becoming the richest kingdom of all Middle Earth, it’s people protected and content, at least in their minds. But outside, for those who lost sleep each night to assure that their kin slept peacefully, peace never came. The spiders were gathering in Mirkwood, orcs and goblins plagued the fields and bandits held up unarmed travellers on the roads. The near-constant raids had forced Thorin and Thranduil to put aside their differences and aid each other on occasion, least they both be destroyed. Strangely enough, most of their kin did not take so badly to the reconciliation. The older dwarves still frowned upon elves visiting their sacred halls, but the young ones begun to befriend their allies, albeit a bit hesitantly, due to the stories they heard from their fathers. One such case was that of Gloin’s son, Gimli, who had entered a sort of rivalry with the elven prince Legolas. The elf had been sent often, as an envoy of his father, and upon his first visit, Gloin had made it his priority to prove his opinion, that his wife was ugly, entirely wrong. The prince had taken a liking to the dwarven woman, many times apologizing profusely to her and her husband for the unnecessary insult, and had spent much of his time with them, when he visited. Gimli had grown so accustomed to the elf that they became as close as brothers. Often, they would be accompanied by Kili, whose love for archery was not that widely understood among dwarves, after all what use is a bow inside mines? Legolas often joked that Kili had become his apprentice, with the amount of questions asked and hours spent training with the elf. The only thing that could cause Kili to skip a lesson with the elf was if his brother needed him.

Thorin did not like to think about what had happened to Fili, but even though the dwarf had been a proper adult since many years,each time he looked at him all he could see was the young boy that would follow his beloved uncle into the darkest night, the fiercest fire. And follow him there he did, and though Thorin’s wounds closed and scarred over, easily forgotten, Fili’s wounds never would. The crown prince had suffered the most after the battle of Five Armies, his leg crushed and body pierced many times as he defended his uncle, not even knowing if Thorin was still alive. In fact, it was a miracle that he had survived at all, the only reason he did being that Dwalin saw the stand the two brothers took, and rushed to help once Fili had finally succumbed, with a loud battle cry, and that drew both dwarven and elven troops to that spot. The old warrior had taken Fili off the battlefield and into the hands of healers just in time. 

Still, the prince would never again walk on his own, and most anything tired him quickly. He spent most his days in a smaller throne that Thorin had erected for his heir, so that he could provide counsel at all times, being unmarred by the prejudices of the old times. The king valued that counsel greatly, and made sure his nephew was occupied as often as possible, so that he would not feel a burden. In fact, he had been anything but. Each time Thorin looked at him, he saw the grief, sorrow and destruction his own greed had caused, when it could have been solved earlier, and so much better. Fili’s fall was Thorin’s fall, ultimately, and it did not matter what the boy said, or what others tried to convince him of. It was a heavy burden, and it would be his punishment.

“Uncle?” the soft voice drew Thorin out of his musings, and he looked to his right at his dearest advisor, “You’re doing it again.”

“What exactly?” the king frowned.

“Regretting. What have we told you about that? You have enough burdens as it is, being king. You need something to bring you comfort. Or someone.”

Thorin looked away again, even more pain gathering on his face, “And I have told you that’s not possible. Why would anyone forgive what I’ve done, let alone him?”

Fili sighed, shifting a bit in his throne to ease his injured leg, “You are a damn fool, uncle. You focus on complicated tactics, politics and mechanics of our society, and you can’t even see the bloody obvious.”

“What does that even matter?” Thorin asked, his voice low and pained, “I have made mistakes, and I must pay the price.”

The prince groaned in annoyance, taking the crutch from the side of his chair and slowly standing. In a moment, Dwalin, who had served as the heir’s protector since the fateful battle, was at his side, helping him off the throne.

“Call on me once you’re over your brooding and self-loathing, uncle. I have had just about enough.” Fili said, slowly limping out of the room and towards his own chambers.

  
  
Thorin had not seen either of his nephews late into the evening, their mother only mentioning  to him they were both cross with him and did not wish to speak to him for now, what only added to his anger at himself. He made his way to the dining hall, expecting to be alone as usual. Only his old company ever dined there, and he had never been on time. To his surprise, a tall figure was sitting to the left of the tall chair, reserved for the king. Thorin smiled, albeit sadly, as he saw the man.

“I see you have tired of the white halls of Rivendell, Estel. What brings you to Erebor?”

The young man removed his hood and inclined his head a bit, not standing, “Lord Elrond sends his best regards to you, and so does lord Celeborn and lady Galadriel.”

“I have no doubt they do, but they do not use rangers to pass on their regards. What happened?” he asked, sitting down and helping himself to his meal.

“I have come because I heard that Gondor had declined your request for help,” he explained, “Though I know that is dire news to you, I would also ask you not to hold it against them. Ecthelion had fallen no more than a month ago, and the new steward, Denethor, had only just lost his own wife, among many other victims of the recent orc raids from the south. They have no man to spare. I would suggest Rohan, but I have just returned from there and... well. Not all is well in the Riddenmarch.”

“Orcs?”

“Shadows,” Estel said, his voice barely audible, “Whispers in the darkness.”

Thorin frowned, “Sounds like wizard business. And that is not something we need.”

The man nodded, “And I see that though your city is in a far better shape than most those to the south and far north, you are as miserable as a Gondorian widow.”

“I feel like one, most times,” Thorin mumbled, setting an empty plate aside. A servant quickly came in and removed the dishes. The king smiled and bowed his head at him, with gratitude.

“I have spoken with Fili. He worries about you.”

“He is upset with me.”

“Annoyed is a better word. He is right, however, you are so tangled in your own shame and sorrow that you miss the obvious thing.”

“Pray, what would that be, ranger?” he frowned again, “I have no time for riddles, nor the mind to solve them.”

“You refuse to speak with Bilbo Baggins, or even answer his letters, because you believe he treats your actions as betrayal and would not dishonor himself by befriending you again. Yet he keeps sending you invitations.”

“Courtesy, surely. Either way... it is more complicated than that. We were not friends. We were …” he trailed off, the word stuck in his throat, and he knew enough about the differences between men, dwarves and elves, to avoid stating such things outright. He knew hobbit folk frowned at grown hobbits indulging in such things as opposed to having a comfortable home and family.

“It is quite clear what you were, my friend,” Estel smiled, “And I can see your heart longs for him. Believe me, I know that pain, longing for someone you cannot have. But that is not true. You can have him back. He will forgive you, if he hasn’t already.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Thoring said his voice bitter and eyes gleaming, “I have treated him like vermin, and all that after he had given all of himself to me. He defended me, knowing he may die, then he trusted me in every way possible... And I named him a traitor and cast him out. And demanded apology afterwards. Who could ever forgive that?”

“A hobbit, named Bilbo Baggins,” the man smiled, “He misses you, Thorin. He misses the travels and adventures. I now see him as far as Bree sometimes, though he does not know me. And Gandalf would tell you the same, as would anyone of your company that visits the Shire, only you do not listen.”

He sighed, “And what would you all have me do then?”

“Write to him. His birthday approaches, and you could perhaps send him a gift? Or require he arrives to receive it himself?” after the king did not respond, the man continued, “Your sorrow will ruin you, Thorin, and with you, your kingdom. Erebor was not reclaimed only to fall to it’s lord’s heartache. Bilbo Baggins, if what I heard of him is true, is a greater and nobler hobbit than you know it, and no one in Erebor would hold it against you, should you chose to pledge yourself to him. He would be here, no old hobbitwives to frown on him, and hailed as a hero who helped reclaim your home, and your heart could be whole again. Duty can only keep you together so long.”

The dwarf continued staring down on nothing in particular. Estel knew well what he spoke of, as his own heart was destined to be left broken, since he loved one that could never be his. To them, there would be no joyous reuniting, for whichever choice they made, there would be pain, to them, or to those they loved. But Bilbo left behind no one. Thorin harmed no one. And if Bilbo could forgive him, perhaps not all was lost.

“I believe Gimli and Legolas are leaving soon for the Shire, to bring greetings to master Baggins on the occasion of his birthday. I think I shall send a letter with them.”  
  


 

  
_Dearest Bilbo,_  
 _I realize the state of our relations when we parted were not those of friendship. I do not know if we can rekindle even that within us. I have been a fool, my lust for gold and power had overtaken my judgement and I have done you wrong. And after that, even though I realized what a fool I had been, I still demanded, in my foolish pride, that you apologise to me for your betrayal. You never betrayed me, Bilbo. I betrayed myself._  
 _I have long sought the words in which I could explain the state of my heart to you, but I do not think any speech in this world has such words. I do not doubt that Gimli will tell you what his father, and any other of our company would – that I never married, that I refused any and all offers from all noble houses of my kin, and I would not even attempt to sire an heir to my throne. In any case, I do not need one, as Fili is more than capable of leading our people once my time comes. With his injuries so severe, he has nothing left but the politics of Erebor and his brother to keep him sane. I know the thought that you are there, in your hobbit hole and that you are safe and happy make him stronger. I know they make me so._  
 _I miss you, Bilbo Baggins. I have never missed nor longed for the company of another as much as I now long for you. There is no maiden of Erebor fair enough, nor a jewel of the mines bright enough to match you. I understand that now, I have for some years, but I am a coward as much as I am a fool and I could not force myself to write this letter. I have received all of yours. They are with me at all times, my most precious treasure. I only wish that instead of reading your words I could hear them._  
 _Erebor is dark and cold, Bilbo._  
 _Please come back to me. To all of us._  
  
 _Thorin_  
  
Bilbo pocketed the letter, rubbing the tears off his face quickly, hoping Frodo would not notice. He had read that letter goodness knows how many times on their way to the Lonely Mountain, and each time he felt his heart break a bit more. Yes, Thorin was a fool, a prideful one at that, but he was not much better. How many times did he plan to go away again, visit Rivendell, Beorn's hall and Mirkwood, then end his visit in Erebor? He never did. And Thorin waited for him, all that time. So many years lost... How could he even excuse that to himself? It would never be proper, he thought. Such close relations with a male, a dwarf at that, and a king, maybe can be excused on a quest, with no lovely ladies around, but in times of peace? In the king's own hall? Who could ever accept that?

Who could deny Thorin Oakenshield? No one would say a word. Not to a son of the line of Durin.

“How far, uncle Bilbo..?” the boy riding beside him looked up with tired eyes. He was big enough to ride a pony, but he was only allowed that for short periods, and only if he was secured enough between their luggage, and he spent most of the time riding with Bilbo.

“Oh, not that far. We're past the worst part, but it wasn't so bad, was it?”

“Moria is dark,” Frodo shivered, looking down, “Is Erebor like that too?”

“Oh no, Moria was destroyed by orcs, Frodo. It will be dark there for a while still, until Balin finishes cleaning it up.”

“But Erebor was destroyed by a dragon! They're worse than orcs!” the child insisted.

“Erebor was taken, my boy, not destroyed. Smaug was too greedy to actually ruin everything. And there's so many shiny jewels inside there that it's actually very bright!”

“... If you say so” Frodo mumbled, clearly not very convinced of that.

They rode silently for the most part, both of them too tired to maintain a proper conversation. With the dangers on the roads and the weather not very good, Bilbo decided to skip a visit to Thranduil and Beorn's grandson, and took a path straight to Erebor. Frodo started to doze off soon enough so Bilbo picked him up and into his lap, so that the boy could sleep as they rode, and he tied the other pony to his own saddle.

The weather was not that well, but he was thankful that it was not raining, at least. And that the road was somewhat clear and visible, so at least he could see any attackers on time. And just as that thought crossed his mind, he heard horses behind him. For a second, he considered a gallop, as far away and off course as possible, only to lose the enemy, but then remembered that, as far as he knew, orcs or goblins did not ride horses, so he stayed on the path. A few minutes later however, as the steps grew louder, Bilbo felt a chill in the air and his hand reached down to his pocket on it's own, looking for the ring he stole from Gollum, but just as he was about to put it on, he heard a horrid screech behind him and, holding Frodo tightly against his chest, brought both ponies into a gallop, trying to get as far away as possible.

After what felt like eternity, the darkness appeared to fall behind, but he continued to speed forward, holding Frodo to his chest tightly, the hobbitling shivering, knowing there were things to be scared of, but trying his best to be brave. They would have continued the gallop their ponies dead, if not for a group of men that surrounded them the moment they passed the edge of the forest. Bilbo covered Frodo with his cape, hoping that he could negotiate with bandits better if they were not aware of a hobbitling at his chest that they could use for leverage.

However, as he stopped, the men only looked at him, but no one drew a sword. A man on a fair, dark steed rode froth from their company, and bowed slightly from atop his horse.

“Master Baggins, I assume.”

“... I suppose that depends on who is talking.”

The man smiled, “They call me Strider, and I am the leader of the Rangers. We mean you no harm, master Baggins, we were sent here to assure your safe passage through the forest. I fear we were somewhat delayed.”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I'm Bilbo Baggins, yes, and you are late, very late indeed. There's bad things in those woods, mister Strider, I will have you know!”

The man nodded, the smile remaining on his face, “We are well aware. The letter from Balin that you were on your way here from

Moria did not reach us on time, I fear. Even the birds do not complete their travels on time these days.”

“So you were sent here by king Thorin? I was under the impression that Men were not interesting in aiding Erebor.”

The smile faded from Strider's face, “The Men of Gondor have denied their aid, but it is not out of ill will. This land is not the only one threatened by a shadow. But we are not of Gondor and we aid all those that are in need, if we can. We have been in Erebor when the message arrived and offered to escort you there.”

Frodo peeked out from under the cape, and the the men begun whispering among themselves in a language that Bilbo could not understand, but that sounded much like the speech of elves. Strider smiled again, at the hobbitling.

“Hello, little one. Are you alright?”

Looking from one of the men to the other, and apparently deciding that they were on the right side, Frodo decided to speak, “There was something in the forest and it chased us...”

“Chased?” Strider looked back at Bilbo.

“Ah yes. Something... I don't know what. It was dark, I thought that night had fallen, even though it's clearly day. I think it was a man, because I heard a horse, and orcs or trolls don't ride horses, I believe. Either way, it fell behind somewhere.”

The men stopped muttering and each placed a hand on their sword heads turned towards the forest, as their leader turned his horse around.

“We move now!” he cried, “Keep master Baggins surrounded and protect him from all harm!”

They formed a shield of men and steeds around the two ponies and they moved, not galloping, but still hastily, away from the forest.

“D-do you know what that was?” Bilbo called to Strider, who now rode in the front, “The thing that chased us?”

“Not for certain, no,” the Ranger replied, “But what you say is enough for me to suspect a thing more foul and evil than what you had met on your previous travels.”

“... I fought a dragon then, master Strider. That was a creature most foul.”

“I stand by my word,” the man said, “And if you think that too frightening, you are correct. Dark times are upon us and an elven dagger and magic trinkets will not be enough to protect you.”

Bilbo swallowed hard at the last remark. He had not mentioned the ring to anyone but Gandalf and Thorin, and he hoped that if the wizard mentioned it to anyone else, it would be people he trusted. What was he thinking? Of course Gandalf would not betray him! Why did such a thought even cross his mind? But he had to be sure that his precious ring was protected though. Precious... where had he heard that before?

He shook his head and looked forward, towards the high mountain of Erebor. He had other things to think of for now.


	3. Jewel of Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili is faced with a tough choice, being the crown prince of Erebor, but also because of a rare disposition he had since birth. Wanting to feel useful despite his severe handicap, he must chose between the one he loves and his duty.  
> As Bilbo arrives to Erebor, he realizes the Shadow that he thinks followed him through Mirkwood, is more serious than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter is Fili-centered. Because I want to torture him.  
> Not in this chapter though, at least not much. This one is smut, too. Fili sex. You can thank me in the comments.  
> Warning - unorthodox pairing.

As he finished re-braiding his hair, Fili looked down on his knees, both appearing the same under the loose robe he donned after his bath, and both seemingly fine. But should he chose to stand, he would have fallen, crying out in unspeakable pain, just as he always had. Well, he would not fall. Dwalin would be at his side in an instant, to catch him before his knee as much as bent. His left leg was useless, and he was fearing that his right would soon follow, until he could not even rise out of bed without the help of a servant. Each day he felt a bit more pain in it, as it slowly gave in to the weight of his entire body, having to support it without it’s counterpart. Soon enough, he would be carried into the throne room and back to his rooms, being unable to do most anything. Not that had his leg been fine he would be of much use. The wounds through his chest that he sustained did not fully close for months after the battle and after they had, they would reopen should he do anything more demanding than brewing tea. Most thought him dead, he himself did not believe he will survive. He vaguely remembered his brother’s tearful face over him, sometimes his uncle, and later on, as more dwarves heard of the reclaiming of Erebor, his mother. Later on he found out that Dwalin stood guard over him all that time, and reported of his well being, his short periods of clarity, to his family.  
  
The dwarven warrior had taken a liking to the two brothers, and though he loved Kili as much as anyone else in the company, he felt a different sort of love for the elder of the brothers. He had made that known to Fili during their quest together, and though flattered, the young prince had been conflicted since. Not because he could not reciprocate. He was quite fond of Dwalin, and the fondness grew more and more with each day of their mission, but though stemming from a family no less noble than Fili’s, his family was well established as allies to the line of Durin. And with that in mind, both Fili and Kili had to be open to the possibilities of political unions, Fili more so, not because he was now the crown prince, as Thorin refused any and all marriages to any women, his heart set for one already, but because he had the unluck of being one of the few dwaren males that not only could sire children, but also bear them. And with so few women amongst them, males of his disposition most often became mothers, and in noble lines, bargaining chips.  
  
“Are ye allrite, lad?” Dwalin asked, standing on guard by the door, as he had always done since Fili was healthy enough to return to a somewhat normal life.  
  
“Am I ever?” he whispered, more to himself. The older dwarf smiled sadly as he walked over to him and sat beside him on the bed, “Looks like ye need t’take yer mind offa this nasty politics business.”  
  
The prince closed his eyes, feeling Dwalin’s fingers move over the hair that flew down his back. The warrior always said he loved his hair. Like flowing gold in the depths of Erebor, he claimed. And now that they reclaimed the city, Fili was not even well enough to be allowed in the mines to see if indeed his braids resembled the gold there at all. One of his hands moved to a folded letter that he placed on the bed that morning, and which remained there unopened until he had returned and awaited his bath. Now that he knew it’s contents, even more sorrow filled his heart.  
“Dwalin I- I must ask your forgiveness,” he whispered.  
  
“Forgiveness?” the hand on Fili’s back froze, “What is there t’forgive?”  
  
“There was a letter today. As you see. From Ered Luin,” the prince explained, “Long ago, my grandfather, Thrain- he promised the son of their lord a hand of a woman of the line of Durin, should the Firebeards allow us to settle there with them. Apart from my mother there are none.”  
“Save you,” Dwalin sighed, understanding, “But it will be some time before they come to demand their price, won’ it?”  
  
“I suppose it will” Fili smiled sadly, looking at Dwalin, “But please forgive me. I would give all I could to spend my days with you, but it is not my fate to chose for myself. I must do what is right by our people and-”  
  
Before he could finish, the older dwarf pressed his lips to the prince’s, as he gently wrapped one hand, still tangled in the golden hair, around him. Fili leaned into the embrace and Dwalin gently pushed him down onto the bed, to make sure whatever he did it would not damage his leg. As they broke the kiss, the older Dwarf smiled down at the prince, and wiped the tears off the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Whatever happens, laddie... Know this ol’ dwarf’s heard is yours, Crown Jewel of the Mountain,” he whispered, his hand lifting the robe up and moving between the prince’s legs, making him gasp at the sudden pleasure, “My Archenstone...”  
  
Knowing that he did not need to speak, Fili allowed Dwalin to touch him, kiss him, as he trembled and moaned, managing for a brief moment to forget the pain. A few swift motions and he lay bare beneath the hulking warrior, his eyes half closed and shining with tears still, a soft smile on his lips as he was kissed again, and again, before the skilled lips moved lower, over his neck. A moment later a pair of skilled fingers moved between his already stiff length, and into the warm tunel that he wished he did not have to save for a husband, and could just give freely to one he did love. Dwalin moved them around slowly, pleased in the sounds he urged out of the prince. He knew well what Fili liked, both of them having indulged in such pleasures quite often, even if not fully. As the prince’s moans became louder and higher, he pulled away for a moment, undressing himself. Fili raised himself on his elbows to admire the sight.  
  
“Whatever my fate may be, no Firebeard could ever match you, Master Dwalin,” he said, moving his hand to his length as he licked his lips, “No other dwarf could match you.”  
  
“Yer too kind, lad” the warrior moved back to the bed and kissed his young lover. Gently urging him closer, Fili left behind his own arousal to deal with one quite larger and quite more interesting. Dwalin exhaled, closing his eyes, as the young dwarf rubbed him to his full, impressive size.  
  
He removed the prince’s hand gently and moved over him once more, kissing over his neck as he rubbed his length against the other, both of them moaning and trembling at the pleasure. Fili’s hands danced over the hard, tattooed back and firm hips, his soft cries feeding the flame within the warrior, as he explored the slim, almost hairless chest with his own fingers. He carressed the sides of his chest, his waist, slim even if it was no longer firm with muscle, most of it gone due to the prince’s forced idleness. But he did not care. He would not if the poor prince had grown as large as Bombur. All he ever wanted was to assure that the lad was happy, and at peace. And each time he had the privilege to please him, he loved to see him squirm and writhe in the pleasure he gave him, and he did not even need remember of himself, for the lust within him was enough to bring himself over the edge, though somewhere in the back of his head, he longed to plunge himself into Fili and give to him all that he could.  He chose to take things slow, however, control his lust in fear that he may harm his precious jewel, cutting too hard, too deep or just in the wrong way. So each time their dance would last till all the candles have died and the sun began to rise, finding them spread across the large bed, spent and happy in each other's arms. And as always, Fili moaned time and time again, closer to the end each time, until he finally reached his peak, his soft cry echoed by the songs of larks at his window.

 

  
  
Erebor looked a bit different than when he last saw it. More whole, for one. The giant gates and statues were rebuilt, and now worked properly, so he at least would not have to burgle his way into the city. Though perhaps that would be a pleasant way to remind his old companions of their quest. He was glad when he saw the steps and gates of the Lonely Mountain, for all throughout their way from Mirkwood to it, Strider would constantly look back towards the forest. His cheer however was short lived, as even though it was clearly day, and judging by the sun it had been at least for a few hours, the northern side of the mountain was engulfed in shadow.  
  
“Why if it isn’t the famed hobbit burglar!” he heard a familiar voice and joy returned to his heart again, “Welcome back to Erebor, mister Boggins!”  
  
“Wonderful to see you too, Kili!” he said, getting off his pony and helping Frodo off it as well, “You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you? And look at you! A proper beard!”  
  
The young dwarf grinned. He was indeed equipped with proper dwarven hair now, even if it were short as his uncle’s, “Aye, I’m the prince now! Must be handsome and available for the noble ladies,” he looked down at the hobbitling, “And you must be Frodo!” he knelt down and patted the tiny shoulder, “You’ll love it here, you’ll see. And when you’re older, I’ll teach you to use a bow, and uncle Thorin will surely teach you swordfighting.”  
  
“I’m too small for dwarf swords” Frodo said, shyly, hiding behind Bilbo the moment the dwarf rose again.  
  
“Well, we shall make one that fits you then. Come” he wrapped his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, “The King awaits you. And you, Rangers!” he called to the men, “He will surely want to thank you for delivering the burglar whole!”  
  
“Give your uncle our thanks, prince,” Strider said, sounding stern, “But master Baggins has provided us with troubling news of the things that trouble the roads. We shall make our way back to Rivendell, to inform lord Elrond.”  
  
His face growing serious as well, Kili nodded at the men, “Go then. The faster we get the roads safe the better. And should you need more scouts, I will gladly join you.”  
  
Strider smiled, nodding, and he and his men sped off towards the forest.  
  
Just as the sounds of the horses died, Bilbo and Kili turned back towards the gate, only to be stopped by the sounds of hooves once more. As they looked towards the forest, they saw a whole cavalry of ponies heading their way, dwarves atop them. From a distance they looked like any other dwarf Bilbo had met but as they drew closer he could notice that every single one had hair and beard red as if it were living flame.  
  
“Who are they?” he asked Kili, his confusion growing as he saw the deep frown on the prince’s face.  
  
“Nothing good, master Baggins,” he said, “Nothing good.”  


 

  
“The sun has not risen” the prince whispered as he was woken by Dwalin planting soft kisses over his bare shoulder, “The birds are singing, but the sun is not up yet. The shadows grow bolder each day.”  
  
“Perhaps it did not reach us yet” the warrior mumbled.  
  
“We are near the top of Erebor. The sun reaches us before it does anyone else, you know that.”  
  
He did. The royal family had the privilege of the richest and grandest halls of all of Erebor, and they were also closest to the rich mines and treasury, but as Fili could hardly move, Thorin ordered rooms build above, at the very wall of the mountain, so that the prince could at least spend his days in the sun, observing the life outside and the settlements that had begun growing around the mountain. Untangling himself from his lover, Fili sat up carefully and donned the robe that had lain discarded by the bed, and picked up his crutch. He walked up to the window and sighed sadly.  
  
“Wha’ is it?”  
  
“The Shadow, I told you. The sun’s up fine. It’s just the Shadow.”  
  
Dwalin rolled over to his back, groaning, “Well, least now we don’ have them spiders crawlin’ up yer windows, lad.”  
  
“Wouldn’t mind a few.” he mumbled, “I could throw stones at them and pretend to be useful.”  
“You’re as useful as t’rest of us, Fili” Dwalin rolled off the bed, almost falling, and redressed, “Yer mind’s fine. Tha’s all you need, in my eyes.”  
  
The prince smiled softly, “In your eyes I could be an orc and you wouldn’t care.”  
  
“True, tha’. Well, best get ourselves down, ey? Or should I bring ye food here?” he asked, but as his lover did not reply for a moment, he walked closer to the window, “Fili?”  
  
“I have no mind for food today, Dwalin,” he said, his voice lowered to a whisper. The warrior stood beside him and looked down to the foot of the mountain and towards the road that lead to the gates, and his heart sank as he saw who was riding towards Erebor.  
  
The Firebeards of Ered Luin had arrived for their price.


	4. No Place like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds out the reason the Firebeards are not welcome in Erebor, and the pain they brought with them.  
> He is also humilated at how the King greets him and his nephew to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary - lore, drama, drama, smut.  
> In other words - there is not enough bottom!Thorin in this world, so have some.

The halls of Erebor were indeed much brighter and homely than those of Moria, to Frodo’s relief as much as Bilbo’s. He had assured the boy that they would be pleasant, without actually ever seeing them himself. Still, both Balin and Thorin would speak about the city in the evenings, around their campfires, and they were wonderful storytellers. The hobbit was glad that they had not embellished their memories of their home, most probably because there was no need to. Erebor was simply magnificent.  The rebuilt hall shone brightly with torches and light coming up from the crystals above, all arranged in intricate patterns, some geometric or depicting, some, larger, showing stories as if they were crystal tapestries.  
  
Frodo kept gazing upward, relying only on his uncle’s guiding hand, taken in by the beauty of the place entirely, he did not even appeared scared of the strange, fire-haired dwarves that arrived moments after them, though they did give him quite a fright as they got off their ponies and started exclaiming and shouting loudly towards Kili, in Khuzdul. Surprisingly, the dwarven prince simply bowed with a soft, and to Blilbo, clearly fake smile, and let them through, even though any proper hobbit would admit that he had been there first, and thus propriety dictated he’d be the first to enter. Not to mention he was there on the request of the king himself. Still, if Kili did not wish for any confrontation, Bilbo would remain silent as well.  
  
“Who are they?” he asked quietly, as they walked behind the party of Firebeards.  
  
“That’s the prince, well, the closest they have to one, from Ered Luin,” Kili replied, again surprising Bilbo, as he spoke in Sindarin. It was clear he had to learn it from Legolas during their common archery practices, but the only reason he would chose to use an elven language within the greatest of dwarven cities was that he did not wish for someone to know what he spoke of. And though the hobbit could clearly tell that the other guests were not trusted, he started to realize just how serious this mistrust was.  
  
“And why would they be here?” he asked, speaking Sindarin himself now.  
  
“Well, as you know, uncle and my grandfather have made us a home in Ered Luin when the city fell. There was an agreement as to the price, a part of which was to be paid in some time after our settlement.”  
  
“But this is quite a long time after that, isn’t it? Why wait so long?”  
  
As Kili was about to respond, they were stopped by a dwarf, clearly female by her attire and what could only be described as feminine beard style, approached them and bowed.  
  
“Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, at your service.”  
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” the burglar bowed back, smiling, “A pleasure to finally meet your highness.  
  
“Ah, highness, hardly,” she said, shooting a glare behind her, and towards one of the dwarves in the arriving party. He looked back and smirked at her. Though the others seemed to be proper dignitaries, that one, the prince, Bilbo figured, had something uncanny about him, something he was willing to call barbarism, in his bright eyes and furled brow, marred by two scars running down to his cheek.  
  
“Please forgive my rudeness, master Baggins, but I would ask you to wait until my brother is done with the Firebeards. It will not amount to anything good, and he will be better off should you come later and soothe his worries than to witness his anger.”  
  
“I’m... not sure I follow,” Bilbo said, watching as the Firebeards enter the throne room and the door closing behind them.  
  
“I fear this is a result of a mess I’ve caused, quite a long time ago,” Dis sighed, “You see, Master Baggins, When I was a wee lass, I was promised to the Firebeard’s lord.”  
  
“You were to marry him?” he repeated, “That dwarf? The one in the gilded armor there?”  
  
“Aye, him. I didn’t like the idea, as you can imagine. His father is a noble man, but Narhim, his son, is a fool, a brute and most of all, has no true regard for life. Much like his cursed meddling mother,” she huffed, “All here know that all she ever wanted was for a son of hers to be wed into the line of Durin. Some say she’s a witch. To me all that matters is that she bribed my father to handing me to her son.”  
  
“But you... didn’t marry him,” Bilbo observed.  
  
“Oh of course not! I did what any respectable daughter in the line of Durin would! I eloped!”  
  
Kili chuckled, despite himself, and Bilbo blinked. Frodo was still occupied, watching the crystals, something quite unheard of for a hobbitling his age.  
  
“You eloped?”  
  
“Can you blame me, master Baggins?”  
  
“N-no, not at all! Especially as... well, people elope out of love, most times.”  
She nodded, “And love I did, well and long, and was loved in return. But my husband died, and now my time of grieving has passed and Narhim has seized this opportunity to demand my hand once more.”  
  
“Uncle won’t let him, mother!” Kili cut in, “The Firebeards received more than enough gold in your stead, they should demand nothing more!”  
  
Before Dis could answer, the doors to the throne room opened, and the Firebeards left, the prince smirking even more boldly.  
  
“Well it appears I will be staying in Erebor from now on!” he said, looking towards Dis and Kili, “The future heir to Thorin’s throne should, after all.”  
  
The princess paled suddenly, “Heir- no. No! Thorin would never-”  
  
“Thorin cannot keep what is not his to give, my dear,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself, “Be glad you’re now old and withered, and even a cripple is preferable to you. I bid you a fair day. You and your... companions.” he shot a condescending glare at the hobbits, and left, lead into the depths of the city by a very sad looking Ori, who was not even given a chance to properly greet an old friend.  
  
“What happened?” Bilbo asked, seeing tears in the woman’s eyes, and anger in Kili’s, “What in the name of Old Took’s prized turnip just happened?”  
  
“Fili,” the prince said, helping his mother sit down at one of the chairs, carved in the stones around the hall, for the convenience of those awaiting audience, “He- He mentioned he’d do it, but I didn’t think Narhim would accept it. Fili’s- Mahal curse it all, he won’t even survive the wedding night with that brute!”  
  
“But Fili’s male,” Bilbo said, his mind having issues adjusting to the large amount of information, not to mention their scope and weight, “And Narhim wanted heirs.”  
  
“Some males are- well.Females too. Fili is. Both, I mean,” Dis explained, her voice crackling, “My poor boy... hasn’t he suffered enough?”  
  
“Maybe it won’t be so bad? I mean... he’s a dwarf after all, he wouldn’t want to hurt his own kin. His own wife?”  
  
“It’s more complicated than that, Bilbo,” the hobbit turned towards the sound of the familiar voice behind him, to see Balin smiling at him sadly, “Dis, calm yourself, this is not yet the end of the world. We will get the best healers, and we will make sure that whatever happens, should it come to it, Fili will have the best of help. Narhim is a fierce warrior, and brutal, yes, but here he is bound by our laws and though his father is not here to stop him, Thorin and Dwalin will cut him to pieces should anything happen to your son.”  
  
That seemed to calm her a bit, as she nodded, wiping the tears away, “Such an idiot,” she said, “So much like his father... You best go,” she turned to Bilbo, “Go to my brother. He will need you now. He’s needed you for so long...”

 

  
  
  
As Bilbo entered the throne room, he made his way to the throne, ready to kneel down and offer his homage, but was not allowed to do so. Thorin stepped off the stone steps and quickly was at his side, kneeling instead.  
  
“Forgive me,” he said, his head low, “By all the stars, please forgive me.”  
  
The hall was silent. Dozens of dwarven nobles and dignitaries were around them, looking at their king in astonishment, as he knelt, on both his knees, his head touching the floor in complete submission, before this hobbit, this foreigner from a land no one even cared to put in detail on a proper map. Behind him, Frodo blinked, even more confused as his uncle, whispering softly to ask what was going on, why did this dwarf kneel and who was he?  
  
After a very quiet and very awkward moment, Bilbo, his face as red as old Hamfast’s prize winning tomatoes, grabbed the king by the shoulder.  
  
“Get up!” he mumbled, “Get up, you idiot, you make us both look like fools!”  
  
Thoring looked up at him, surprised, “Bilbo..?”  
  
“I forgive you! I did! Long ago! Why else would I invite you to every single birthday party! Heavens, you dwarves! What did you think, that I had a picture of you on my wall, serving as a target for when I played darts with my guests? I swear, you’re the king of all this and you can’t even figure out a-”  
  
He suddenly found his lips pressed against Thorin’s, and for a second his ears registered voices around them mumbling and commenting, some in disappointment, some in astonishment, but very soon he could not care as he clung to the king with both his arms, letting go of Frodo who clapped happily at the sight of his uncle kissing like his own parents used to. In that moment, Bilbo could swear that the entire journey had gone through his mind, heading backwards to the moment he and Throin first embraced, that dawn when he could not yet believe they did not perish at the hands of orcs, and that he managed to even slay a few, in defense of Thorin, the very day he had become a full member of their merry company, and shortly before he and Thorin chose to leave pretence behind and admit to each other their feelings. The first time he had truly known love.  
  
As they separated, Thorin looked down at him, tears falling freely from the corners of his dark eyes, “Welcome home, Bilbo...” he whispered and then looked over the burglar’s shoulder, “And welcome home to you, Frodo Baggins” he said, kneeling down to look at the boy, “I was told bad things happened to you, but I promise you, Frodo, nothing bad will come here, and you are safe.”  
  
Again, hiding behind his uncle’s leg, the hobbitling nodded. Thorin stood, taking Bilbo’s hand, “I have had much grief myself, this day. I would gladly leave it behind, for a moment,” he looked back at the two thrones, one of which occupied by Fili, who smiled happily at the sight of the hobbits.  
  
“I will handle the merchant complaints for you today, uncle,” he said, “And hello to you, master Boggins! Forgive that I don’t stand to greet you.”  
  
“Good to see you, Fili!” Bilbo smiled.  
  
“Come,” Thorin said, leading the hobbits out of the throne room, “I have ordered halls prepared for you, and there should be a bath waiting. I shall lead you.”  
  
“Surely you have... servants?” Bilbo asked as they left. He looked around the long hallway, but he could see neither Kili, Dis or Balin. They were lead down, through wonderfully carved corridors, busy with dwarven merchants, tinkers and warriors, discussing their wares, offers and days with one another, he noticed a female here and there, most accompanied by a male, either clearly wed to her, or courting her to his best ability. He noted that dwarves were not just open about their feelings in times of strife or on long, lonely quests, but in their regular lives as well. He could notice a couple snogging more than one time, and he swore that once, the snogged female was certainly not, in any way, an actual female.  
  
The halls that Thorin mentioned, were tall rooms, far too tall for even a dwarf, let alone a hobbit. Frodo was quite happy with them, jumping onto the bed to test it’s springs, and becoming ecstatic when he realized he could jump as high as he wished on it, without bumping his head on the ceiling. Deciding to let such an atrocious lack of manners go just this one time, and since a servant has entered either way, to take care of the hobbits, and was instructed to help the boy wash and don fresh and clean clothes first, Bilbo turned back to Thorin.  
  
“Well. Here I am. We are. I mean.”  
  
“My dear burglar,” Thorin smiled, placing a hand on Bilbo’s cheek, “My heart... Do you know how I’ve missed you?”  
  
“I gathered you have, quite a great deal, from the way you greeted me. That was... quite pathetic. I do have to say. Not kingly at all.”  
  
“No, I agree, it was not,” the smile did not fade from the dwarf’s lips.  
  
“And we cannot have such things. You are a king, after all.”  
  
“I am, I do believe so, yes.”  
  
“Right then. With that settled...” he said, with the corner of his eye making sure the servant and Frodo have disappeared into the bathroom, “I have missed you too. A lot.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“A great..” Bilbo pushed the dwarf towards the bed, “Great lot,” he gently shoved him down onto it, Thorin not offering any resistance, “And right now, as part of your punishment for utterly humiliating me in that throne room, you are going to remind me why, in the name of all that is good in this world,” he climbed on top of the dwarf, skillfully unbuttoning the royal robes, and allowing Thorin to do the same with his own, “would I leave my cozy Bag End and come here, to live with you, in the middle of a mountain.”  
  
“As you command, my burglar,” the king whispered, and Bilbo kissed him again, squeezing himself between Thorin’s legs and yanking the dwarf’s trousers up just enough to reveal what he was looking for, and he pressed a finger against it, making the king shiver in need.  
  
“Your nephew...” Thorin breathed as Bilbo broke their kiss.  
  
“He takes ages to wash,” the hobbit replied, looking through his pockets until he found a phial of ointment, for bruisings mostly, that could serve their purpose, and undid his own pants, “We have plenty of time. And I’ve waited enough for this,” he rubbed himself stiff and slick, then quickly aligned his member with the eagerly awaiting hole, “And so have you so do us both a favour and shut up.”  
  
Right before he pushed in, he looked up at his lover, who smiled back at him. Thorin’s eyes were calm, almost serene, his face, though clearly aged before, appeared to Bilbo to be just the same noble and battle-hardened face he had fallen in love with all those years ago. He took the dwarf’s hand and their fingers entwined, tensing for a second as he made his way in, earning a soft moan from the royal lips. Thorin closed his eyes, his smile softening to a delicate, barely visible one, as he felt himself taken once more. Leaning forward, Bilbo planted gentle kisses over Thorin’s chest, not yet moving, allowing his lover to adjust after their long time apart. He felt warm and welcoming, but as tight as if he were a virgin again, and in a way he was. He was the same dwarf that left to reclaim Erebor and Bilbo was no longer the same hobbit. None of them ever would be, but in this coupling they could at least feel the same as they were when they first joined, at the western edge of Mirkwood, as they left the company behind, telling them they were scouting ahead. Oh, it would be quite long till they heard the end of their jokes, since they went ahead to stay behind.  
  
Finally, urged by Thorin’s hands, as they roamed Bilbo’s neck, shoulders and back, he begun to move slowly, letting go of his desires once more. Thorin moaned so beautifully, his voice echoing against the tall pillars and crystals that lit the room. The king’s member was hard and pulsing beneath Bilbo’s belly, and the hobbit grasped it in one hand, rubbing it in rhythm with his hips, as he picked up the pace bit by bit. Soon, Thorin begun to thrash beneath him, arching back, his mouth open in a silent scream as he neared his peak. The dwarf never made much noise, perhaps out of fear it would attract enemies in the field, perhaps he was just the silent type, but Bilbo could never draw out more than a moan. Finally, Bilbo felt Thorin’s insides clench around him as the kings spilled between them, coating the hobbit’s hand with the warm substance. It drove the burglar to his peak as well, as he emptied into the willing dwarf.  
  
Panting and sweaty, Bilbo pulled out of Thorin and climbed onto the bed next to him, kissing his lover’s smiling lips softly.  
  
“It’s good to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just curious, is anyone interested in my version of how Thorin and Bilbo became lovers? Because I'm considering a one-shot.


	5. Coming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and his entourage are ambushed by orcs, who are lead by a terrifying rider, as they return from a diplomatic visit to Isengard.  
> Bilbo gets a surprising letter, as he and Thorin plan their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I shall give poor Fili some personal space in this chapter, which mostly serves to push the plot along and add some more romance. I can't just leave Thranduil the Fabulous un-shipped now, can I?

Thranduil could not recall the last time he had felt such fear. Anxiety, uneasiness, perhaps, but never such sheer, unspeakable terror. He urged the horse to gallop faster, his mind clouded with the thoughts of his party as he had no idea of when and where to have they disappeared. All he wanted was to get as far away from the creature, whatever it was. And the orcs. He thought there were orcs, but he was not sure, his mind was utterly clouded. His vision blurred as the horse turned and jumped through the unbeaten path in the forest, nowhere near as skilled at maneuvering the terrain as the elvenking’s steed. Why was he on a horse though? Where was his beloved beast? Where did his people disappear to?  
  
A sudden jolt of pain made him bend forward, nearly tipping him off the animal, but he managed to grasp the mane hard enough not to fall. But after a moment, another sharp pain made him tumble off the horse and he could see nothing more, nor feel anything but the burning ache in his side. His arms wrapped around himself, he lay there, mind black with fear and eyes wet with tears. All he heard were birds above him, crows and ravens ready to feast the moment he drew his last breath in this land, and woke in Mandos. Slowly, he begun yearning for that final gasp, as the pain spread over his body and reached his heart and lungs, so that each breath was like a blade piercing him through, but as the moment did not come, he drew ever so close to cursing Illuvatar and his gifts to the elves and men, wishing he could have the release of mortality.  
  
“Thranduil!” he heard someone call, first as if through a mist, from far away, and he thought of his father calling him to Mandos, but the voice grew stronger as it called, again and again, “Thranduil! Good heavens, what happened? Why are you even here?”  
  
He felt himself lifted and groaned at the new source of pain, as strong arms turned him to face the sky.  
  
“Mithrandir...” he breathed, “What... has happened...?”  
  
“Believe me, I wish I knew... By Eru, you’re wounded, badly...” he said, laying the elf back down, and touching the side of the torn flesh, the examining the blood on his fingertips, “Poison, no doubt. This is ill news.”  
  
“My court...” the elf whispered, “fell behind...”  
  
“They are well, and worried for you. You were ambushed as I gathered from their panicked speech, and you disappeared. They thought you were taken.”  
  
“Pain...”  
  
“Yes, yes...” he sighed as he did his best to cover the wound and then gently picked him up, “The way to your own kingdom is long, I fear. We shall have to pay a visit to lady Galadriel.”  
  
His pain overtaking him once more, Thranduil could do little but allow himself to be carried off, wherever the wizard saw fit. He was not sure how much time had passed, though it felt an eternity, the pain coming and going, each time he could muster the strength to open his eyes, he saw a different scene. Trees, then blue sky, then the moon and ten trees, through a canopy of delicate fabric. Lorien, he thought. Has it been so long, truly, that they made their way to Lorien? Where was he found and where were his companions? He could hear voices nearby, but they made little sense, though he could clearly hear Mithrandir and the other voice could have been the lady Galadriel. But they spoke in Quenya, and the pain clouded his mind enough for him to make little sense of his own speech, let alone an ancient dialect. But as he could see the gentle light above and feel the soft bedding beneath his back, he begun to calm and the pain dulled, allowing him a sparkle of hope that perhaps he could, at last, rest.  
  
Just as he closed his eyes, he saw the source of his fear, the hooded horseman, a long, dark blade in his gloved hand, his steed black as a starless night and with eyes red as flame, and he cried out in horror, wanting to run again from that terrible creature.  
  
In a moment, Gandalf was at his side, calming him down, and he heard a woman’s voice, muttering something, and his vision cleared. He looked around, the pain still there, but no longer dulling his other senses.  
  
“... Mithrandir?” he said, his voice stronger, if a bit trembling, “Lady Arwen?” he turned to the dark haired woman, who smiled at him.  
  
“You must rest, Thranduil,” she spoke, “Your wound was not grave, but the blade had been poisoned and you were delirious. You spoke of many things in your sleep.”  
  
“I slept? I feel as if I had been awake for days. Where are my companions?”  
  
“They are on their way to Mirkwood and they are safe,” the wizard assured him, “I fear you were the only one to be targeted with a poisoned blade, which would lead me to assume this was not a mere skirmish.”  
  
“... Assassins? Why? Because I had gone to Isengard to seek help from Saruman? Ai Valar!” he cried, grasping Gandalf’s sleeve “I left my son to care for my kingdom! Is he well? Is Legolas safe?”  
  
“Entering your palace to slay him would be a much harder task than assaulting you in the middle of an ancient forest, of which you had no knowledge. Luckily, your assailants had little briefing on the dangers of Fangorn as well, I believe, as if your steward be believed, they had been mostly scattered and slain by the trees.”  
  
“... Fangorn?” the elvenking frowned, “Why had I chosen to return through Fangorn? Moria would have been preferable in these days, to that place! Balin may be a dwarf, but he is a wise one, at least, to keep the mines protected.”  
  
“I cannot tell, and neither could your entourage, I fear. They claim it had been a strict order, and that none would dare oppose you, your tone was that firm. I have sent a letter to Saruman, asking if he had any knowledge of your plans after you left Isengard.”  
  
Thranduil laid back on the soft bedding, staring blankly at the evening sky. He could recall little of his path back to Mirkwood, and even of his visit to the great Wizard’s tower. His mind was filled with the images of that terrible rider and those red, flaming eyes. No. Not eyes. There was just one.  
  
“Just one,” he whispered.  
  
“Thranduil?” Gandalf frowned, looking down at the elf, “One what?”  
  
“One eye. Just one... burning red eye,” he muttered, “There was a horseman, among those orcs. But he could not be an orc. I ran from him. He was... dreadful. As I looked at him, it were as if the world had been swallowed by darkness. I heard nothing and saw nothing but his face and the sound of his horse, gaining on me. And there was an eye, watching me. Just one. Red.”  
  
The wizard looked at Arwen and she simply nodded and left. He then looked back to Thranduil.  
  
“Did the rider have a blade?”  
  
“Yes. Long and dark.”  
  
“Did that blade wound you?”  
  
“No,” he replied and could hear a sigh of relief coming from Gandalf, “The thing did not come near me, but I was so frightened I cannot even recall being cut.  And I would think an orc blade would not be easily missed, especially not embedded in my side.”  
  
“Certainly not, no,” Gandalf said, standing, “But you are better now, and there is no more danger for you, so rest well. We shall return you to your people once you have regained your strength, my friend. I shall take my leave, for now...”  
  
Thranduil closed his eyes again, but they opened the second after, as he could see that eye on him once more. It would not blink, it would not turn and it continued to stare, at him, through him, red, flaming and unforgiving.  
  
  
  
  
“I can’t believe this!”  
  
Thorin looked over from his desk and the heap of documentation that needed his attention, to turn towards his lover. Bilbo stood by the fireplace, dressed in regular hobbit fashion, the richly decorated garments that he had been presented by Thorin laying discarded on an armchair. The king did not mind, as he had only given the halfling the clothes so that he would blend in better and the councillors had one less reason to scoff at Thorin’s choice for a spouse. Of course, it would not be uncommon for two males to wed, among dwarves, but almost always one of the males were blessed with the gift of childbearing, and even if they had both been exclusively male, they were at least both dwarves. But a halfling, at the side of a son of Durin’s line, was to many of them, unthinkable. They offered eager opposition, of course, but with little effect. Thorin had named his heir, who was soon to wed himself, though all of Fili’s kin demanded that the betrothal be followed by a sufficient amount of time before the wedding, something he and Bilbo chose to omit, and they both were heroes of Erebor, saviours of the Mountain Kingdom, and would not be denied. Of course they lied that they had sworn to each other during their quest, so that the ceremony may proceed as soon as possible, and before any of the more powerful families in the land would come out of shock and offer an armed rebellion.  
  
“You cannot believe what?” he asked.  
  
“They’re coming! The Sackville-Bagginses decided to grace us with their presence at our wedding!” Bilbo explained, sounding utterly perplexed.  
  
“Well they are your family, are they not? You have sent them an invitation, after all.”  
  
“Well it was only proper, wasn’t it? But they hate me! Loathe me!” he threw his arms up, the letter dropping down onto the bearskin rug, near Frodo, who was occupied with a beautiful toy dragon that Bofur had made for him, which would roar and move it’s claws, and even puff smoke when properly wound up, “And whoever heard of a hobbit going as far away from the Shire anyway?”  
  
Thorin could only smile at that.  
  
“Oh, you know what I mean!” Bilbo groaned, his arms dropping down to dangle at his sides, “They’re coming here and you know why? Because they expect gold. They heard I got gold while traveling about with dwarves, and now I went off again and I am marrying a dwarf and that means, there’s a lot of gold somewhere here. So they’ll come here, they’ll huff and puff at my improper and scandalous marriage, and leave, as much gold stuffed in their pockets as possible!”  
  
The dwarf stood from his work and approached the hobbit, embracing him gently, “And what if they will?” he asked, softly, “You worry too much, my beautiful burglar. The storms have come and gone, the wounds have closed and healed and we are here now, together, and soon to be wed. I care not if your relatives come here to raid my vaults clean of gold, or my pantry clear of food for that matter,” he chuckled as he earned a tired frown from Bilbo with that remark, “As long as you are here, I am truly a happy dwarf.”  
  
“Will aunt Lobelia take me away?”  
  
Thorin and Bilbo looked down at the hobbitling, as he sat on the floor, the clockwork dragon close to his chest.  
  
“Aunt Lobelia said, when you took me, that you were a bad hobbit to give me to. She said she would take me with her.”  
  
Before Bilbo could speak, Thorin sat down on the floor, facing the boy.  
  
“Do you like it here, Frodo?” he asked, smiling.  
  
The boy nodded, “I like the crystals a lot. And Bofur keeps bringing me toys and Kili said he’ll make me a bow for my birthday. And uncle Bilbo smiles all the time and you tell all these stories and I liked it when there was a storm and Bilbo wasn’t here and you just let me sleep with you and told me even more stories so I wasn’t scared.”  
  
Bilbo blinked, “You did?”  
  
“And do you want to go with your aunt Lobelia?” Thorin asked, ignoring his lover.  
  
“... I miss the Shire a bit,” the boy admitted, looking down, “There’s not much green here and I can’t run where I’d like, because Ori said I might fall down a mine shaft and hurt myself. But aunt Lobelia never read me any stories like you did. And she didn’t like papa much. She said he’s not being papa right.”  
  
“Do you think that’s true?”  
  
“I was happy with my papa and mama.” the boy said, after a moment of intensive thinking, which he underlined by scratching his head, “I wasn’t happy when we visited aunt Lobelia though. So I think papa was a good papa. And you’re a good papa too. And uncle Bilbo’s a good mama.”  
  
“Wh- I’m not a mama!” the hobbit exclaimed with not nearly enough offence, in his own mind.  
  
“Yes you are,” Thorin grinned, standing, “We shall fashion you a dress.”  
  
Frodo laughed, clapping his hands “Uncle Bilbo in a dress!”  
  
“And we shall not let any Baggins other than uncle Bilbo have you,” the king said, picking the boy up, “And for now, I think it is time for you to sleep, and dream about dragons and wizards and brave hobbit burglars.”  
  
“Can you tell me a different story though?” Frodo asked as he was carried to his room.  
  
“Hm, have I ever told you about two dwarf boys and a big, bad thief? And how they learned to listen to their mother?”  
  
Bilbo smiled as he watched them disappear behind the door, and he picked up the toy dragon to place it back on the shelf next to a growing collection of clockwork toys. He supposed he could be a mama. And he would be damned if he did not be the best mama a little hobbit could have. And as he heard laughter of both the hobbitling and the king, from behind the closed doors, his heart swelled at the thought of being privileged to see the proud heir of Durin as a simple loving father.  
  
  
  
  
Galadriel observed the shard that was removed from Thranduil’s wound again and again, turning it in her fingers, now that it had been thoroughly cleaned of any poison. The memories seared into her mind, returned one by one as she relived the most painful moments of her existence. She cursed the tears that would not flow, as she grew older, harder and colder with each day since she donned that cursed ring. She could not remove it, however, for she swore an oath to protect it and conceal it from any and all, even those she had loved. She could not deny that what had happened may be connected to that oath, and that the tragedy that befell her family was in part her own doing.  
  
Tharnduil was stricken down by the same blade, though not on the same path. Orcs had gone as far as Fangorn, perhaps even Isengard, and they were bold enough to attack an entourage of an elfking, within the ancient forests at that. All of Elrond’s oaths, all of the campaigns lead by Elladan and Elrohir, to clear the roads of those monsters, and all that happened was the orcs becoming bolder and more savage. Perhaps the ways the half-elf and Mithrandir so praised were not the ways to quell the darkness? Perhaps those the like of Feanor or Isildur had been right in their choices after all?  
  
“Another night you evade me, my queen,” she shivered as she heard the words and a hand was placed on her shoulder, “I see naught but sorrow in your eyes again.”  
  
“I know the poison that struck down Thranduil,” she explained, her voice calm and firm, “As do you. Can you blame me for my pain?”  
  
“I ache, you know that,” Celeborn said, kneeling beside her, “And I would not dare to compare my pain to your suffering, now or ever. No man can understand a mother’s pain, my lady” he touched her cheek gently, and she turned away.  
  
“He lays there, healing, while I could never save her,” she said, bitterly.  
  
“He was stricken once. Celebrian endured days of torment, she was beyond repair. You cannot blame yourself for that, no one could have healed her,” he took her hand and kissed it “You cannot allow this to come between us again. And you cannot allow it to distract you from your duty to this world. What befell Thranduil is an ill omen of days to come. And you will be needed.”  
  
“I should have left these lands with her” she whispered, standing.  
  
“We hold too much power to be allowed choices, my queen.”  
  
She turned to him, in anger, ready to lash out at him for his insolence. How dare he speak to her, at such a time, about such things? How dare he tell her how she should act? But as their eyes met she froze, gazing into the calmness, the steadiness of his features, his hand still firm around hers, not even flinching, though her arm was raised to strike. She had felt like that, long ago, as passionate and as hateful as she was now, long ago. And he came to her then as well, calming her and leading her away from her fury, perhaps the only reason she did not make an oath as foolish as that of her kin.  
  
She looked down, shrinking visibly almost, and she trembled, reaching out for her husband’s arms. He embraced her as she begun to shiver, tears finally flowing down her face and into Celeborn’s silver hair. He held her as she cried, and lead her back into their abode and away from the darkness, her only anchor to what was left of her sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know at least two people that read this who are less versed in the works of Tolkien than most others, so I would like to mention, for their benefit, that Arwen spent most of her time not in Rivendell, but in Lorien, with her grandparents, and thus, that is where she is at the moment.  
> Other than that, I promise more smut, more drama and more fluff in the following chapters! I'm sorry it's taking me so long to update, but life is evil, and wonderful, at the same time. I got storm clouds over my head and butterflies in my belly and lots and lots of work.  
> Please don't hate me if it takes me more than a week to update!


	6. Sheildmaiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili needs to thread lightly around his fiancé, who does not hide his intentions for the younger dwarf. The steward of Gondor choses to send his son to a meeting in Rivendell, which the young Gondoriad does not desire to attend. Meanwhile in Rohan, the land is struck with a tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I think it's about time to gather the dungeon raid. And torture Fili, he's had a whole chapter to relax.

Happy to be occupied with running the kingdom while his uncle prepared for the celebrations of his and Bilbo’s wedding, Fili sat by a large desk in his room, reading through the greater portion of the documents that were usually the king’s responsibility. He did leave a part of the work to Thorin, if only to make sure his uncle would not fuss over him overworking himself in his state. He was happy with as much work as he could get, as it provided an excuse to avoid Narhim for as long as possible, and limit the communications with the Firebeards to the far more respectful and courteous councillors. At least they did not use all their free time in Erebor to drink themselves under a table.  
  
As he threw another letter of complaint concerning the king’s marriage to a hobbit into the fireplace, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a large figure in the open doorway. He was certain he had locked the door, and the only people with a key to them aside of himself, were Dwalin and Kili. He turned around with his chair, developed by Bofur especially to allow him to maneuver around the study area of his room as much as possible (the engineer wanted to make it a transport for the prince to move all around the city, but Fili refused, at least for as  
long as he was able to use what was left of his legs), to look at his unwelcome guest.  
  
“Can I help you?” he asked, frowning at Narhim, who walked into the room with a sly smirk on his lis. He looked sober, and somehow that did not make Fili feel any more confident about the situation.  
  
“Admirin’ my prize” the larger dwarf said, eyeing the young prince as if he were a heap of gold, “Yer uncle can stall, but I will have you, sooner than later.”  
“You will indeed, but for now I would like to finish my tasks, so if you could kindly leave me to my duties, I would be grateful.”  
  
The Firebeard laughed, “S’all yer good for, innit? Signin’ papers like some scribe. Heard ye were a warrior, but I can’t believe that, to be honest. Just look at you.”  
  
The prince flushed with anger, but chose to hold his tongue for a moment, not wanting to speak before he composed himself a bit. He did not need to unnecessarily aggravate the fool.  
  
“My state is not a source of shame to me,” he said, finally, his voice low and growling, anger clear with it despite his best efforts, “As it was a price I paid to redeem my home. No medals or jewels ever made me prouder of the sacrifice I made. Now, I bid you, leave me be.”  
  
Narhim grabbed the arms of his the chair, leaning forward, his nose inches away from Fili’s.  
  
“I see I awoke a fire in your eyes, girl,” he said, stressing the last word mockingly, “Yer wise to make use of this time, for once you’re mine, all that awaits you is pleasing me and birthing my heirs.”  
  
“Remove yourself, or I will call the guards,” Fili said firmly, reaching out to push the Firebeard away, but before he could grab him, Narhim pressed his lips to his own in a crushing kiss.  
Soon, both his wrists were held in place as the larger dwarf invaded his mouth. Wanting to get closer, the Firebeard leaned against Fili’s ill leg, making the prince scream into the undesired kiss. As the pain would not fade, the blonde dwarf chose to make use of his only free and functioning limb, and kicked blindly against his assailant.  
  
Narhim fell back, a hand over his crotch, growling and uttering curses at Fili, who could not care less about them as he could only focus on the searing pain in his damaged leg.  
  
“Oh, you little weasel...” the Firebeard spat, “You’ll regret this. I’ll make you wish you died in that battle.”  
  
“Out,” Fili breathed heavily, his eyes blinded with pain, “Get out.”  
  
Narhim stood, anger burning in him, and walked towards the prince again, a hand on the handle of his blade.  
  
“The prince asked ye to nicely, laddie,” Fili could not help but smile as he heard Dwalin’s voice. He looked up, the pain dulling enough to keep himself aware of the surroundings once more.  
  
The Firebeard appeared to want to strike the warrior, but as he saw who it was, he regained himself. Narhim was of an impressive stature and his weapon was well crafted, but Dwalin still towered over him and his own axe had been made by elven smiths and given to him by Thranduil as thanks for his help in defense of Mirkwood a few years back, as a one of many gifts exchanged as token of a growing friendship between their peoples, and as the dwarf’s own weapon was destroyed then. Should they clash, it was almost certain the ceremonial armor and weapon of the Firebeard would not last very long.  
  
“I see you make up for your handicaps with drones,” Narhim brushed off his tabard as he straightened up, “Ye’ll get what’s comin to ya, girl,” he spat, leaving.  
  
Dwalin closed the door and rushed to Fili’s side.  
  
“Did he hurt ye?”  
  
“He tried. I’m fine now, no need to pamper me.”  
  
“I don’ pamper you, I love you,” Dwalin kissed his hand, “There must be a way to get you out of this.”  
  
“I’ve made my choice,” he smiled at the warrior, sadly, “You know that my heart is yours, and so would my body be, if I could give it. But I’m a prince and I have my duties.”  
  
“This is wrong.”  
  
“This world is wrong. But I cannot risk our people to fix it.”  
  
Reisgned, Dwalin stood with a sigh and handed him a letter.  
  
“For you, directly. From Gandalf, if the writing is to be believed.”  
  
Fili frowned as he opened a letter, and found a short note, with another letter, sealed and addressed to Thorin and Bilbo, attached. No doubt something of great importance, or he would have wanted it delivered to them directly, but a letter to them was tempting for one of the nobles of councillors to intercept.  
  
He read the note and sighed heavily.  
  
“Call uncle and Bilbo to the meeting hall,” he said, “I fear their celebrations will need to wait.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Denethor was not at all eager for this journey, but his father insisted he answers the summons, being the youngest of his heirs. And of course, Thorongil had to be the bearer of the summons and thus, his companion on their way back to Rivendell. He resented the man and did not hide it. All the years he had been around only served to make the people think less of Denethor and more of the soldier, and all that without any firm proof of Thorongil’s claimed origins. For all he knew, he came from the north and that meant he could be a Dunedain as much as a trained spy of the barbarians that occupied those lands. But perhaps Finduilas was right, and he was too strict for a man who only wished to do good? Yet, each thought of her made him despise the ranger more, for having taken him away from his wife and child. He only hoped he would be back home soon, he was already missing far too much of Boromir’s life due to his duties.  
  
“We should reach the hall of Thengel soon,” Thorongil said, breaking the silence in which they rode since they left Minas Tirith, “I think we both could use a warm bed and some ale.”  
  
“You mentioned you have visited there on your way to Gondor,” Denethor said, not sparing the man as much as a glance, “But you spoke of it as if you knew it well even before.”  
  
“I served king Thengel as I served your father,” the ranger smiled, “He is a good man and a good king. There is his hall now!” he motioned forward, as their road had rolled over the top of a hill, and they could see a city, surrounded by nothing but green plains, “The last stop before we reach Lothlorien, as well, so we may well make the most of it.”  
  
Deciding not to comment on the Ranger’s choice of a path, he simply followed. He had no desire to mingle with elves and dwarves, let alone take part in some council that, he was sure of it, had no desire to aid any humans, or even bother with their affairs.  
  
As they neared Edoras, Thorongil’s face changed from a smile, which Denethor suggested was most likely as fake as his origins, to a frown.  
  
“There are dark banners all over the city,” he said, “The people of Rohan are in mourning,” he brought his horse to a gallop, and the Gondorian followed, also surprised at the state of things. Whatever occurred, it had to have happened between the time Thorongil stayed there on his way to the Tower, and the few days it took him to arrive there and their arrival at Edoras together.  
  
They passed through the main gates with a mere bow on the part of the guards, as both men wore gleaming tabards of black and silver, with the Tree of Gondor, and as such were treated as welcome guests. They rode up the steps of Meduseld, dismounting almost at the very door, their horses escorted at once to the stables, and were greeted by a young woman, dressed in dark clothes, eyes red with tears. Before either of them could speak a word, she embraced Thorongil, more for comfort than in greeting.  
  
“So much grief befell us since you left!” she cried, “So much pain! Surely it is a curse upon us!”  
  
“Calm yourself, highness,” the ranger said, pushing her away gently, but with a firm hold on both her arms, “What has happened?”  
  
“The king is dead! He fell ill and within three days he was gone. Now his daughter is on her deathbed as well, soon to join him! All the healers in the land have failed, and the summons we’ve sent to Gondor were not answered, only you now come!”  
  
“We’ve received no summons,” Denethor frowned, “There were no men but Thorongil at my father’s court.”  
  
“Then you are not a healer?” she asked, staring at him, her eyes swelling with tears again, “But Théodwyn-”  
  
“Enough, lady Elfhild, where is your husband?” the Dunedain asked, turning her gently back to himself.  
  
“With Théodwyn. He hasn’t left her side since his father’s passing...” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks now, her voice barely a whisper.  
  
“Lead me to them and I promise you, I will do all I can to save the princess.”  
  
To Denethor’s surprise, the woman, who he supposed was now the queen, as he deduced she was the wife of Théoden son of the late king Thengel, lead them through the hall and throne room, to the back of the keep, where all the living chambers were arranged. What use could a mere ranger be where all healers have failed, he could not tell, but Elfhild clearly trusted him at least as much, if not more, than his own father had. As they reached a corridor where the more elaborate rooms were, she opened one door to reveal a room, that hit them first with a heavy scent of herbs and medicines, and then with the view of a young woman, who would have been quite fair if not for her illness, and a large, fair man, sitting at the side of her bed and holding her hand. As the light from the hallway hit them, the man turned to look at the source of the disruption.  
  
“Thorongil,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes no less red with tears than his wife’s, “You chose a bad day to visit again. The darkest day Rohan has seen”  
  
“Allow me to help, my king,” the ranger asked, kneeling beside Théoden, “I shall do all I can.”  
  
“I am no king yet, nor shall I be, until all this has passed,” he replied, but stepped aside to allow the Dunedain to sit by the woman’s side, “But what can you do, if all healers failed?”  
  
“Trust me, Théoden. Leave me with her and call your healer. I shall not rest until she is well.”  
  
After a moment of hesitation, the king nodded and beckoned everyone else out of the room. The chief healer was called and disappeared inside. Théoden stood in the hallway for a moment, before he noticed the Gondorian.  
  
“Forgive me,” he bowed his head slightly in greeting, “I did not offer you proper welcome, or even asked your name.”  
  
“He is the son of the lord of Gondor,” Elfhild said quietly, “Forgive me husband, I forgot to say.”  
  
“The circumstances are in your favour, highness,” the man nodded at them, “I am Denethor, son of Ecthelion, yes.  
  
“Still, forgive us. We do not make good hosts this day, I fear.”  
  
“Perhaps I shall offer you a place to rest and some food then?” the queen asked.  
  
“I would rather stay here and witness whatever witchery Thorongil employs to save the princess.”  
  
Before either of the royals could reply what appeared to them to be a very strange and rude remark, the healer left the room in a hurry, then returned, with what appeared to be a handful of raw herbs, and vanished within the chamber once more.  
  
“Let me bring you some ale then, at least,” the woman said after a quiet moment, and hurried off.  
  
Enough time had passed for the sky to grow dark before Thorongil emerged from the room. Everyone tensed, for he looked worn and pale, but he smiled and behind him, they could see the princess, rising from her bed. She looked sullen and thin, but her eyes were bright and she smiled as her brother embraced her, crying with joy and relief.  
  
“Théodwyn!” he whispered, “Heavens, you live... If only Thorongil came sooner, saved our king as well...”  
  
“You are king now, brother,” she replied, pulling away from the embrace, “And I am well so you need not worry anymore for me. Do right by our people and rule them well.”  
  
He nodded at her, stepping back to look at her whole, as if still not believing she was there and alive. Then, he turned to the ranger, “How do I ever repay you?”  
  
“I would ask how he managed this feat,” Denethor said, the mug of ale in his hand empty after his third helping, loosening not only his tongue, but also his resentment. He looked at the chief healer, “You witnessed it, so speak. What has he done and what was that weed he used.”  
  
“The herb?” the man, thin, hunched over from years of studies and withered with age, blinked at the Gondorian, “It is kingsfoil. Many healers use it, my lord. As to what lord Thorongil did, I swore not to tell. It was no witchcraft nor dark powers, I assure you, and our princess is healed and well, so what does it matter? I could not have done what he did, and his skill cannot be taught. It is of no use to know how it was done.”  
  
“I care not for how he managed it, only that he did,” Théoden added, “Speak, and you will be rewarded, my friend.”  
  
“Your joy is thanks enough, highness,” Thorongil smiled, “As for rewards, that has been granted by your sister already.”  
  
She nodded, “He is leaving to a great gathering of all folk of Middle Earth, brother, elves, dwarves, men, even halflings will be there, and so he would like someone from Rohan to attend as well.”  
  
“You wish to go?” Théoden frowned, “You are not well.”  
  
“She shall be, by tomorrow,” the ranger said, “And she is a wise woman and good envoy, I would be honored to introduce a shieldmaiden of Rohan to lord Elrond, king Thorin Oakenshield and the rest of the gathering.”  
  
“Surely you cannot allow this!” Denethor said, looking from the woman to the king.  
  
“I have no right to deny it,” the king said simply, “The women of Rohan speak with their own voice and fight with their own blade, son of Ecthelion. My sister may do as she pleases.”  
  
Deciding it was best not to speak any more, the Gondorian lifted the mug to his lips, consuming the remainder of his ale in silence. He would have to keep a closer eye on the Dunedain, on their road to Rivendell.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right. A chick in the fellowship.
> 
> (and look it didn't take me a month to upate!)


End file.
